Open [Antinous Training Grounds] A Day of Sparring

[Rickard]

Spring 1 515

Rickard woke in the morning in his wolf form, as was his habit. He shifted soon after, and began to prepare to go to the Training Grounds. He didn't particularly want to go, but his father had taught him that lesson even before he had squired. He thought back to the second day of his "training..."

"Do you think a Knight trains only when he feels like it?"

"The horrors of the world are ever ready. So too must be the Knights."

"Sylir didn't die for you to lie in bed, boy!"

His father always did love to say what Sylir did and didn't die for. Strange how he always seemed to know.

After eating a simple breakfast of dried meat and nuts and inspecting his personal gear, Rickard set out from his Third Tier home. He moved quickly, and before long he was on the First Tier, standing outside the Antinous Training Grounds. He retrieved a set of armor, a shield, and a blunted sword for sparring. While he was strapping on his greaves, he remembered his father again.

"Sylir didn't die for boys to take so long to put on their armor! You're young and spry, and I still do it quicker than you!"

If he hadn't known better, Rickard might have thought his father had known the Slain God. He had certainly seemed old enough at the time...

Rickard took one breath and set foot in the Training Grounds.

[Rickard]

He began by stretching. There was enough danger in training without adding that of a pulled muscle. It was already beginning to feel hot in his armor... He sighed. This was not shaping up to be a good session. He readied himself to train as the older Knights has taught him when he squired. Physically, he continued to warm up his muscles and joints. Mentally, he ran through his basic maneuvers. Overhand, backhand, thrust, block, parry...

Feeling he was ready to begin, Rickard picked up his sword. He started with simple maneuvers. A slash in the air, a block against an imaginary foe, a thrust at nothing. It was mind numbing, but he horsed himself to stay focused, aware of every mistake and ready to fix it. There were still quite a few mistakes. Far too many for one who had been a Knight for so long... He silently cursed himself, but quickly put the thought out of his head. Self loathing would help nothing. Only more training could do that. Another thrust, another slash, another imaginary block. He wondered briefly, not without bitterness, if Sylir had died for him to pretend to fight.

Put that out of your mind, he thought, lupine teeth digging slightly into his tongue. Do not think ill thoughts of the dead. Particularly him.

Next came the dummies. Though still a far cry from a real fight, there was definitely something to be said for having a solid foe to strike. He struck, and again, and again. The hand-and-a-half sword felt perfect in his hand, almost an extension of his arm. He supposed this was how it was meant to feel. Natural, easy, free. But still the mistakes were there. Too many...

A sloppy thrust like that would have me dead, he thought, let alone that indecisive backhand. He frowned, paused, stepped back. Then, he readied himself once more and began his assault on the fictitious opponent anew. He thrust once more. And again, and a final time. The last thrust was near to perfection. He continued, letting himself be engulfed in the sounds of the training ground, the clashing of steel on steel, the the scrape of sword on scabbard, the pounding of armored feet and the thuds of falling bodies. Not for the first time, he wished to see true pitched battle. A brief wash of resentment came over him, resentment for the Windoak whose quest had been so long and tedious and felt so pointless, resentment for the Knights who would not let him go to fight their battles.

The resentment cleared as he tripped and fell over himself. The dead have no business feeling that way, he said to himself. Besides, if there is one thing Sylir did die for, that shrub is one of them. He resolved to seek the Windoak's advice on these feelings as soon as possible. It could not be healthy for one so unskilled to feel so entitled... And he was on his feet again, striking the dummy once more. In a rush of recollection, he began calling out his strikes. "One, two, three, four, block! One, two, three, block! One, two, block! One, block! Block! One, block! One, two, block! One, two..."

Rickard's rain of blows ceased as he looked across the grounds and saw an armored figure, several inches taller than Rickard, beckoning to him. Wonderingly, Rickard sheathed his sword, let his shield arm drop to his side, and walked over to the figure. "What do you need of me?"

The man in the armor laughed, the sound strange and warped through two metal helmets. "Have you forgotten where you are, child? Are there so many things a Knight could want of another here that you cannot guess? If so, I would have you tell me them! I haven't the first idea what they might be!" With that, the man drew his sword, a great two-handed beast, not meant to be used with a shield, and waited for Rickard to strike.

[Rickard]

Warily, Rickard circled around the man, looking for an opening of any sort. He's wielding a damn greatsword, he thought to himself. It shouldn't be this damn hard to find... He spotted the trap. It was clear as day, the mystery Knight's sudden stumble. Even a squire would never make that mistake. A sudden wave of aggression hit him. It didn't matter if it was a trap, he could-

Rickard realized that he had been baring his teeth. He was suddenly thankful for the great helm that covered his face. He eased back into a defensive stance, continuing with the long, slow circles that always preceded the actual strikes of sparring. Whoever this enigmatic Knight was, Rickard knew he didn't stand a chance at winning the match. But he could damn well put on a show...

Rickard waited, watching his opponent. If he could goad an attack out of this mystery man... Rickard drew his blunted blade back, readying for a feint, and stepped forward, lashing out halfway before pulling out of the maneuver and dancing aside from the counter he expected- and right into the one that actually came. A vicious fronthand sweep, it knocked him off his feet.

A gauntlet reached down from above, offering help. Rickard took it and stood up, still dazed, found himself looking once more at the mystery Knight's helmet. "My apologies," said the deep, rumbling voice. "I expected you to move the other way. I hope you are not too badly hurt?" Rickard shook his head.

"Nothing broken, I think. I'll make sure when I'm done sparring. Thank you for caring."

"Should you really delay in making sure?"

"I don't have time to take my armor off and put it back on again. Not by half. Now come. Let us begin again." The man acquiesced, raising his sword once more. This time Rickard skipped the circles, skipped all of the preamble. He rushed the other Knight, raising his sword up and to the right before bringing it down in a great overhead slash, shield raised to guard against the response. He felt the practice greatsword bounce off, felt the shock up his shield arm. Then he felt a rush of pride as his own blow connected with his opponent's shoulder, collapsing the other Knight to one knee.

"Lucky strike on my part..." Rickard muttered, embarrassed by his success. "Would you like another round?"

"I... Think not..." said the mystery man. "I am... Older than you may think. I am tired. Here, will you help me up? Thank you..." Rickard helped him to the equipment room. "Do you need help out of your armor?" he asked the older man.

"No, thank you. I may be old, but I'd wager I'm better at this than you. Sylir didn't die for old Knights to forget their training..."

Rickard walked off, a vague sense of recognition gnawing at the corners of his mind. He turned to see the man under his armor, but the older Knight was already gone... Put it out of your mind, he thought. It doesn't matter.

Rickard walked as quickly as he could back into the training ground proper, looking for a new opponent. Looking to make up for a few minutes lost. He looked through the chaos of the grounds, searching for a fair fight with another Knight. Teeth bared behind his visor, he surveyed all through the grounds for a fitting opponent...

[Rickard]

Rickard thought he should find someone closer to his skill level this time... Looking around, he saw across the crowded grounds an unranked Knight wearing a single sword on his shoulder, about the same size as Rickard, practicing on a dummy. What rank was that older Knight? Did I see? Rickard wondered. He shook his head inside his helm to clear it, and walked quickly to the other unranked Knight. Rickard didn't say a word, didn't offer or ask for a name, simply drew his sword and raised his shield. The other Knight took the signal, turned to face Rickard. The two walked away from the row of dummies, moving toward one of the circles meant for sparring, and each went into his ready stance.


Each of the Knights silently acknowledged the beginning of the match with a nod and a tipped shield. The circling began, each looking for an opening while making sure not to give up any of his own. This continued for some time before Rickard's opponent thought he saw an opportunity. Rickard narrowly caught the sparring blade on his shield, countered with his own blow... Blocked. His opponent decided not to follow up. The circling resumed.

For a moment, Rickard thought he saw a Sergeant Knight similar to his first opponent... He was distracted, trying to remember if he had seen the older Knight's rank, when his new opponent struck... It hit his shield, out of sheer luck. He hadn't even moved his shield arm. The blow sent a shuddering shock up his arm, horseing him back into the match. He returned in horse.

Capitalizing on the missed attack, Rickard countered immediately with an overhead slash, only to find empty air where there had been a Knight. He cursed himself for being slow and turned the lowest point of the blow into an upward strike to the side, hitting the other Knight directly in the ribs. There was a hissing intake of breath, a rapid jump away, a stumble...

Rickard dropped his sword and leaped forward to help the other Knight stand back up. They nodded silently to each other, no words feeling necessary. Rickard retrieved the bastard sword. Both fighters returned to their respective fighting stances. The circling resumed, both all the more careful for the successful strike. Rickard had to remind himself not to get overconfident or too aggressive with his attacks. He forced himself to stay restrained, stay conservative, keep his guard up the way he had always been taught. He was finally starting to feel fatigued in his armor. His arms felt heavy. He felt his sword arm and shield arm both begin to droop, and his legs burned with the weight of the full plate. Sweat dripped down his forehead into his eyes... He shook his head to clear it... Again... Once more... Finally he felt some measure of strength return to his limbs... Not soon enough to block the thrust that the other unranked Knight had sent toward his chest.

Holding up three fingers, Rickard tilted his head inquiringly and looked at the other Knight. He was exhausted, but felt he couldn't leave them at a tie as they were. Rickard raised his sword and shield, and began once more the slow circles with his opponent. His hair was quite filled with sweat, and he could feel it begin to pool in the bottom of his helmet. Panting, but forcing himself through the heat and exhaustion, Rickard made sure not to drop his guard.

He knew it hadn't been nearly enough when he felt the sword against his already sore ribs. Feeling every part of him burn with exhaustion and salt. Feeling his ribs sting with the blow, and his mind sting with defeat. He forced himself to leave behind that train of thought before it turned even more bitter. It didn't matter if he won or lost. What mattered was that he learned, and improved. And he knew he had learned today.

Rickard returned to the equipment room and began to remove his armor, starting with the helmet. As he did, he felt the sweat wash out of it, onto the rest of his body. He removed the gauntlets next, letting his hands feel truly free once more. Next came the armguards, the feeling of freedom slowly increasing. He was tempted to shift to his wolf form... Idiot, he thought. Do you want to die? He kept himself disciplined as he removed his plate boots, stretching and wiggling his toes as they were freed along with the majority of the body. He felt exuberant as he removed his greaves, finally taking the weight off of his legs.

Rickard removed his breastplate with a wince as it slid over his bruised ribs. He examined them more closely now that his armor was off. Nothing broken. Good. Perfect. As he removed the lower layers - the ringmail, the leather, the padded shirt - he felt himself beginning to change forms, hair growing all over his - Absolutely not, he told himself as he forced the transformation to stop. This is not the place. Sylir didn't die for wolves to run wild in this city. He dressed back into his normal clothes and left the training hall, headed home. He heard the chimes. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... Eight? It had only been third chime when he entered! For the love of Sylir, how long had they spent on that pointless- no. No bitter thoughts.

He returned home as quickly as he could, devoured a meal of meat and little else, and listened for the chimes. Nine, this time. He wished he could live closer to the Fourth Tier, at times like this... But it kept him in better shape to have to go to and from. As if he needed the help...

Finally, Rickard let himself make the change he had been yearning to since he removed his armor. He felt himself change to a four-legged shape, felt his hands turn to paws, felt hair grow all over his body. He was utterly exhausted in a way that he couldn't remember being before. He decided to sleep early that night.

[Dravite]

Rickard

XP Award:

• Observation: 3
• Logic: 1
• Intelligence: 2
• Weapon, Sword: 3
• Shield: 2
• Socialisation: 2
• Unarmed Combat: 1
• Endurance: 1
• Bodybuilding: 1
• Organisation: 1

Lore:

• The lessons of a father
• Organisation: Checking your gear before starting the day
• Sylir: God of Peace and Civilization
• Sylir: The Slain God
• Endurance: Stretching before a training session
• Sword: Overhand, backhand, thrust, block, and parry
• Rickard: A longing for battle
• Intimidation: Circling your opponent
• An honourable knight
• Unarmed Combat: Using your body in a sword fight
• Intelligence: Pick on someone your own size
• Sword: Stances for combat
• Endurance: The taste of sweat after battle
• Kelvic: The desire to change

Penalties:
Rickard will have sore muscles for the next three days.
Rickards ribs will feel better in a week.

Notes: Hi, Rickard. Great little thread, was able to award quite a bit of lore and some interesting XP. Let me know if you think I have missed anything here and be sure to edit your grading request!

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